by Jahn, Amalie
Leonetta wriggles into the aisle seat leaving the chair on Travis’s right side for me. I keep waiting for the awkwardness between us to pass but even after hanging out together half-a-dozen times, being around Travis still feels strange. There’s something charming about him, and if we’d met under different circumstances, we might’ve had a shot at being friends. But given his track record of unfaithfulness, I’m hesitant to grant him the benefit of the doubt, especially given his current status—discreetly reading his texts while Summer and Alice chat beside him. Because although it’s possible he’s gotten an important message from his commanding officer, I’m more likely to believe he’s checking on intel from other girls.
I shift my body away from Travis, leaning closer to Leonetta until our shoulders touch. She smiles warily, having also witnessed his nonchalant display, and like me, chooses to keep her mouth shut. I get the feeling, however, she won’t remain silent forever. Her candid sensibilities won’t allow it.
Before we can share any more than a curious glance at one another, the lights go down and the movie begins. An hour and forty minutes later the final credits begin to roll, and as I’m working the crick out of my neck, I notice Alice and Summer are gone. In their place are two empty seats between the guys.
I lean past Travis to call down the row to Marcus. “Where’d they go?”
He straightens in his seat, adjusting his shirt across his shoulders and shrugs. “They skipped outta here about fifteen minutes ago. I guess they went to the bathroom and decided to wait for us out there.”
I can’t blame them for bailing early. The movie’s plot was so generically predictable, there was absolutely no reason to stay. What I can’t understand is why Alice wouldn’t have at least come back in to be with Marcus.
“Something’s up,” Leonetta whispers in my ear, and I nod in agreement.
The two of us hurry into the lobby, leaving the guys to watch the credits on their own. We discover Summer and Alice sitting on the floor beyond concessions, leaning against the wall. It’s obvious, even from across the lobby, Summer’s been crying. She wipes the mascara from under her eyes with the edge of a tissue as we approach.
“What happened?” I ask.
She turns her head, dejected. “Nothing, except for me being a stupid idiot. Again.”
Leonetta holds out her hands, pulling them both off the floor as I glance over my shoulder for Travis or Marcus. There’s no sign of them yet.
“Don’t say that,” Alice scolds. “You’re not a stupid idiot. You’re brave and strong and beautiful. He’s the idiot.”
“So, what did happen?” Leonetta asks again as we make our way outside to the parking lot, the unseasonably crisp night air cutting at our faces.
“The same crap,” Summer moans, closing her jacket protectively across her chest. “He got all pissed because apparently he tried to call me last night while I was at Cora’s house—you know, the shy girl who lives at the end of my street who’s always begging me to come hang out? Anyway, I accidentally left my phone at home and my sister answered and told him I was ‘out’ which set him off.” Her intonation changes now into a weak impersonation of Travis’s much deeper voice. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Why didn’t you tell me who were you with? What are you hiding? If you have so much free time, why didn’t you want to spend it with me?” She sighs. “Now he’s doing this passive aggressive thing where he pretends he’s the perfect boyfriend and nothing’s wrong while he waits for me to say something else to set him off. You should’ve heard him baiting me during the movie. He’s jonesing for a fight.”
Alice rolls her eyes. “He’s only worried you’re gonna start talking to somebody else the way he does. And it would serve him right if you did.”
“It would serve who right?” a voice says from behind us. I don’t have to turn around to recognize who it is.
Alice glowers at Travis who’s appeared beside Summer, draping his arm possessively around her shoulders. There’s a coldness to his expression, daring Alice to say something more, to accuse him of something, justified or not.
“It’s nothing,” Summer mumbles under her breath, and I’m taken aback by the way her demeanor’s completely changed since he arrived. The confident, self-assured woman I know has been replaced by a sullen, insecure version of herself and my heart breaks for her. There’s a moment of awkward tension while Travis takes us all in, but we don’t have to wait long to find out whether he heard Summer complaining about him.
“You still got your panties all in a wad about earlier, and now you’re crying about it to your friends? I already told you I wouldn’t need to get upset if you would be considerate and tell me where you are and who you’re with so I don’t have to go tracking you down.” He glances at the rest of us. “And we’re not coming out with you for waffles. I don’t make a habit of hanging out with people who talk trash about me behind my back.”
Leonetta tenses beside me, her hands gathering into fists. She takes a step forward toward the soldier. “She’s not a child. She can make her own decisions about whether or not she wants to go for waffles.”
Travis ignores her and without another word turns with Summer, who’s still caught under his arm, toward where his truck is parked on the far side of the lot. As they begin to walk away, she glances back over her shoulder, giving us a desperate look, but she doesn’t attempt to break free of his grasp.
“Should we go after her?” I ask the others, but Alice shakes her head as she watches Travis and Summer round the corner of the theater.
“No. Let her go. Just pray that douche ships off to Syria sooner rather than later.”
“Yeah,” Leonetta agrees, “and then pray he isn’t able to find her again when he comes back home.”
*
At the Waffle House, we fit comfortably at a four-top, with Alice and Marcus on one side and Leonetta and I on the other. We have everything covered and smothered, scattered and topped, and once we’ve finished rehashing every dreadful minute of Resident Evil, all that’s left to discuss is our friend’s equally dreadful situation.
“What’s the deal with Travis?” Marcus asks before shoveling a gigantic forkful of hash browns into his mouth.
“I want to say he wasn’t like this in the beginning,” Alice tells him thoughtfully. “But thinking back on how he treated her when they first started dating, I guess there were probably indications of the crap you saw today if I’d been looking for them.”
“Like what?” Leonetta asks.
Alice pushes the runny yolk of her egg around her plate with her fork. “I dunno. Like, he was too good to be true when it came to checking in with her. He was always calling, wondering where she was or what she was doing. It was sweet at first, him thinking about her all the time. But it got annoying once she started having to check in with him whenever she wanted to do anything or go anywhere. Like she needed his approval.”
“You think he’s worried she’s gonna hook-up with someone else?” Marcus asks. “Since she’s still in school and he’s out there in the world.” I get the sense he might be harboring these same fears about Alice, although perhaps he doesn’t want to say anything since their relationship is still so new.
“Yeah. Absolutely. But he’s not just worried,” Alice says. “He’s petrified. Because he knows if he can do it to her, she can do it right back.” She looks reassuringly at Marcus now and says, “But he broke their trust early on with all sorts of lies. We don’t have that problem, do we?”
He smiles at her, taking her hand. “No. We sure don’t.”
There’s something bittersweet about watching Alice and Marcus together. The way they look at one another with such reverence and respect—the way most girls can only dream of being cherished by someone they love. And although they’ve only known one another a couple of months, it seems as though they’ve been together forever, two old souls trapped inside the bodies of these young lovers.
So easy for them. So effortless.
I consider, as I’m watching them pick food from each other’s plates, it might be time to open myself up to the idea of finding my own significant other. Someone who might not be a perfect match for my list but might be good enough to share a plate of waffles.
My stomach lurches at the thought. The idea of replacing Zander as the peanut butter to my jelly is unthinkable. I’d almost rather starve.
As I’ve been mulling over my own tragic love life, Alice has begun telling us about the beginning of her friendship with Summer. About how they met in Spanish class freshman year, the result of a random assignment pairing. At first, she explains, she’d wanted nothing to do with her. Figured they wouldn’t have anything in common. But as she got to know her over the course of the project, she realized just how amazing Summer actually was.
“I mean, seriously, her name’s Summer. Which technically isn’t even a name. Could I expect to become friends with someone named after a season?”
The rest of us laugh, but not at Summer’s expense. Because it was true. At first glance, Summer looked and sounded like the type of girl most people loved to hate. Petite. Busty. Adorable. She was the sort of person you assumed made it to the top of the food chain by clawing her way to the summit; securing her post atop the bodies of every person she stabbed in the back along the way. But she wasn’t like that. Because when it came to being a mean girl, Summer Phillips was far too nice.
“I’ll never forget the day I saw her on her hands and knees, sorting through trash from the cafeteria’s compactor, helping Aaron Barker look for his missing retainer. There was absolutely nothing in it for her. Aaron wasn’t cute or funny or frankly appealing in any way, so it’s not like she was trying to get him to like her. No teacher made her stop to help him as a punishment. She set her things to the side and got right down into the garbage with him because, as she told me later, he looked like he could use some help. That was it. He looked like he could use some help.” Alice’s eyes widen, punctuating the ridiculousness of her statement. “Anyway, that’s when I knew I could trust her to be my friend. Any person who’s nice enough to dig through disgusting, stinky garbage to look for someone else’s orthodontia is someone I want on my team, you know what I’m sayin’?”
We all nod in agreement as I try to imagine Summer elbows-deep in refuse. It sounds exactly like something she would do.
“She and I created our first list that afternoon in Spanish class: Ten Reasons Trash is Gross.
“I thought your lists always have eleven reasons,” Leonetta chimes in.
Alice wags a finger. “Took us half a dozen before we decided to switch to eleven. We only did ten reasons in the beginning.”
Marcus is wearing a curious expression, his eyebrow raised suspiciously. “What lists?”
Leonetta and I snicker, knowing of at least one particular list he would be especially interested in reading. Alice goes on to explain about the lists and how their friendship grew around them, and as I’m listening and laughing along with the others, I’m struck by how content I am, happy even, to be sitting among this group of people. A year ago, I would have never pictured myself eating waffles at eleven o’clock in a greasy spoon with a new group of friends. But here I am. And I could totally get used to this unexpected way of life.
chapter 23
Heathcliff and Catherine
Tuesday, April 16
I’m early to lit circle for literally the first time ever and, while I wait for everyone else to arrive, find myself skimming my now well-worn copy of Wuthering Heights. For me, Wuthering Heights has always been one of those novels prone to transformation with repeated readings, but as I glance at a particularly compelling passage from the early pages of the book, I realize it’s not the story that’s changed.
I’m the one who’s grown.
I was thirteen the first time I read Bronte’s seminal masterpiece. Having only read a handful of other classic works of literature by which to compare it, I’d been discouraged by Heathcliff and Catherine’s unrealized love affair. I fixated upon the story’s main character, certain Heathcliff would eventually metamorphosize into the classic, romantic hero I’d been envisioning: dark and brooding at the start, fiercely loyal and adoring by the end. Of course, he never did and I was devastated, tossing the book aside, certain its pages held nothing more for me.
The following summer, out of boredom and lack of inspiration, I’d reread the book, more cautiously this time knowing Heathcliff would remain malevolent and abusive until his death. Through this filter I was able to concentrate on other facets of the work, most importantly Edgar, Catherine’s dutiful husband, whose cowardice and naivety made him as unlikable as Heathcliff. This rereading provided little insight about the true nature of love I’d been expecting to find, and only served to reaffirm my disappointment.
When Leonetta mentioned Wuthering Heights was on our spring reading schedule for lit circle, I’d initially balked, as this particular Bronte sister had always left me wanting. But the selection was the selection, and I convinced myself fresh insight might be gained through discussion with this new groups of friends.
“Wuthering Heights is two love stories in one. True or false?” Mrs. Alexander begins once everyone has arrived.
Rashida speaks up immediately. “True. Heathcliff and Catherine. The younger Catherine and Hareton.”
“Anyone disagree? Anyone argue it’s only Heathcliff and Catherine’s story?”
Everyone shakes their heads. “Two love stories,” Will says, giving a thumbs-up to Rashida.
Mrs. Alexander looks pleased with our assessment. “If that’s the case, what’s the point? There has to be a reason Bronte chose to present us with two love stories in this one novel.”
“We’re obviously supposed to compare them,” Lashanda says. “One’s good. One’s bad. One works out and one doesn’t.”
A murmur of agreement floats around the room.
“But why?”
I consider Mrs. Alexander’s question—why Heathcliff and Catherine were never able to find happiness together while the younger Catherine and Hareton were. And suddenly it hits me.
“Heathcliff and Catherine never embrace change,” I say. “Young Catherine and Hareton do.”
Mrs. Alexander beams at me. “Go on,” she says.
I’m still mulling it over, flipping through the novel for an example to share when Leonetta pipes up.
“Heathcliff and Catherine act like children their entire lives,” she says. “They never grow up. Their feelings for each other never mature. They keep fixating on what they had as kids, the relationship of their youth, but instead of growing up and becoming mature adults who deal with change effectively, they stay frozen and that’s why they can never pull it together.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roy pipes up. “Like how Catherine keeps going on about wanting to go back to the moors where she was a kid and doesn’t remember much of her life since she was twelve.”
“A grown woman would make her decision and go with it,” Rashida adds. “Either go all in with the highfalutin guy and give up on Heathcliff altogether or choose love and say screw society and its class system. But she waffles between both without committing to either. She needs to change and she doesn’t.”
“Heathcliff is no better,” Leonetta adds. “He carries the same grudges with him from childhood all the way to his deathbed. He never accepts change; he lets it tear him apart which is why he never turns into the proper romantic hero we expect him to become.”
Listening silently to the group’s spot-on analysis, I’m struck by the lesson Bronte is attempting to teach us about love. What she’s been attempting to teach us all along.
Love which doesn’t grow and accept change is destined for destruction.
Oh, God
.
Zander.
There was a point, before Connor’s bonfire party, when our relationship shifted. Hormones were probably to blame, but the sad truth is we did begin to see one another as more than the friends we’d always been. Looking back now, it’s obvious. The way he would linger outside the barn on evenings he knew I was out there, making up reasons to come around. The times I caught him staring at me in math class instead of solving for Y. The way he’d casually find ways to brush against me, letting his hand rest against mine a little too long.
Then that night happened. The cornfield. The blood. And everything after.
Someway, somehow, we’d both decided without a word between us we could never be together in that way.
Our love could never grow from childhood friendship into something more.
We would always be just friends.
Love which doesn’t grow and accept change is destined for destruction.
But now our separation has stripped away the complexities of friendship to reveal a simple truth. I’m capable of loving him in a different way. In an adult way, with romance and passion and longing.
How easy it would be to act upon this revelation if he still lived next door.
If only I wouldn’t have squandered our final years together platonically instead of exploring the possibility of becoming a romantic couple. Why did we even care what the people in town thought, with their righteous stares and presumptuous natures? We should have let them talk. Let them say what they would about the two of us. Because we knew the truth—what we had together was pure and wholesome and true.
It was okay for love to change from something simple and childlike to something deeper and far more complicated.